


Opernball

by MyMisguidedFairytale



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Body Horror, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7061134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyMisguidedFairytale/pseuds/MyMisguidedFairytale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pariston Hill volunteers Cheadle Yorkshire for a mission that calls for two Hunters to pose as a married couple at an opera ball to intercept and interrogate a Kakin defector.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opernball

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [2016 HxH Big Bang](http://hxhbb.tumblr.com/), and based in part off an anonymous prompt ("a paricheadle fic where they have to pretend to be dating. maybe they're undercover in a high class party trying to track down an informant or just keeping an eye on a target. with paris being way too grabby and enjoying the whole situation too much for cheadle's liking"). Warnings for needles and minor body horror. The story references [First Ascent](http://cheadle-yorkshire.tumblr.com/post/114371651887/fanfiction-hunter-x-hunter-first-ascent), [Proioxis](http://cheadle-yorkshire.tumblr.com/post/123412104877/fanfiction-hunter-x-hunter-proioxis), and [Blue Smile](http://cheadle-yorkshire.tumblr.com/post/95336630587/fanfiction-hunter-x-hunter-blue-smile), and while I recommend at least reading the second two before this one, all the stories can stand on their own. I hope you enjoy!

## Opernball

She first notices Pariston standing in front of the bulletin board one morning, as she walks with an armful of books to join Sanbica in the medical suite to prep for a difficult upcoming procedure. It's his posture that gives her pause, standing with his arms clasped behind his back and his shoulders ramrod straight. No one else around him seems to be giving Pariston or herself the least bit of attention, even as every so often someone will walk up to the wall and pull a piece of paper down.

It's a jobs listing, spanning nearly the whole length of the hallway, hosted on the second floor with an open glass railing on the opposite side with an expansive view of the main atrium. As the Hunter Association receives dozens of job offers a day, there are always new listings to post, and any Hunter in the area can reserve a job immediately either at the Association itself or through their online database. She wonders if perhaps Pariston is looking to take on an assignment, or if he has posted a listing himself and is checking to see if anyone's filled it yet.

Cheadle herself barely bothers with such listings. When she takes an Association job, they ask her directly, typically to heal someone important or to be on call during a dangerous mission. Her pay grade is much higher than the standard jobs posted outside, and she imagines someone like Pariston has more important matters to deal with than a basic biological survey or search-and-recover or protection detail. She knows some, like Piyon, like to take E-rank missions if the destination is cool, or Saccho, who take any missions not spoken for if they're issued by his home country, but for the other Zodiacs, and most starred Hunters, such jobs are boring and baseless.

Pariston is nowhere to be found when she leaves the building in the evening, and Cheadle even takes a moment to walk by the wall, to see what listing had interested him so much. The board is a flurry of white leaflets, and although she tries to stand as he had, in the exact middle of the bulletin, nothing stands out to her as worthy of his concern.

She manages to put the entire thing out of her mind, at least for a couple days.

“Ah, Cheadle!” The voice comes from the open doorway, and she looks up to see Pariston Hill, smiling in spite of the city's sudden, late-season heat wave and the building's overtaxed air conditioners. “Do you have a minute?”

Without waiting for her response, he walks into the communal office Cheadle shares with the Association's other committee chairs, previously blessedly empty. Her fingers still over the keys of her laptop, and she quickly minimizes her work and closes the screen before answering.

“No,” she says, knowing that her answer either way doesn't matter to Pariston. “You should make an appointment. Rat.”

He chuckles, and sweeps his hands wide, as if in apology. “I have a dilemma,” he says, after a pause. “I wanted to ask for your advice.”

_That_ surprises her, and her first thought is that it must be something pointless and inane, like his choice between two ties or which car to drive that evening. “And you thought of me? I'm touched.”

“Who else would I turn to?” He fans himself with one hand, the motion slow and deliberate. “Most everyone else who can has left, for the mountains or the beach. It's a shame I have no more vacation days.”

“What a shame,” she echoes. His attendance record is perfect, she knows. Cheadle can't remember a time when he wasn't around to annoy and hamper her.

“You see, I've been getting pressure from the Board of Directors. Certain missions are always going unfulfilled.” He removes a piece of paper, folded into thirds, from within his jacket pocket and makes a show of unfolding it before settling it over her closed computer.

“ _Team_ missions,” he continues. “As you know, most Hunters don't choose to work in pairs.”

She looks at the leaflet pushed under her nose, and scans the lines of text. “This calls for two Hunters to pose as a married couple at the Wienna Opernball to intercept and interrogate a Kakin defector who disappeared the prior year with critical information.” She glances up at Pariston. “How do they even know he'll show? And what's the problem? Rat.”

“I'm very glad you asked. Apparently, this informant has ties to the event. His wife still lives in Wienna, and it's expected the two will appear together. How romantic.”

Cheadle rolls her eyes at the false affection in his voice, and memorizes the rest of the listing while he continues. “It's couples only, unfortunately for those trying to catch him. There are two tickets on hold for whoever accepts the job, but you can see how that would pose a problem for the average Hunter.”

“Ask Menchi and Buhara to do it,” Cheadle says.

“Neither of whom have worked as _field_ agents,” Pariston interjects smoothly. “And I can't imagine Buhara would blend into such an event easily.”

“Then ask Menchi and...that new recruit, what's his name? Hanzo?”

Pariston's eyes widen, and he brings a hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter. “My, my, Cheadle! I didn't know you ascribed to such gossip. You must share your sources. Still, I can't exactly imagine Miss Menchi swallowing her temper in such a delicate environment, either. Or allowing a green recruit to access a B-rank mission.”

“If you already had an answer, why bother coming to me at all?” Cheadle resists the urge to growl, eyeing the clock and wondering just how much more of her time Pariston is going to waste. “You have a plan, so just tell me what it is.”

“Very well. I volunteered the two of us for the mission.”

Silence hangs in the air for a moment, heavy and aporetic. Then, Cheadle says, “Pass.”

“I know how well we worked together in the past, Cheadle—”

“I'd rather not,” she interrupts flatly.

“I checked your schedule, you have nothing of any importance for the next two weeks. And you're far enough ahead on your paperwork that you could disappear for at least that long and not have anything to worry about.”

Cheadle fixes Pariston with her best, most discerning glare, and the smile that he returns is as bright as the flecks of glitter in his tie. “Find someone else. Rat.”

“There _is_ no one else, my dear! Find me another Hunter, who has the skills and strength to succeed on this mission, who can leave immediately, who would not be out of place on a grand stage such as that one. And don't lie to me, Cheadle, I've danced with you before, you're quite good.”

The shallow compliment does little to assuage her of her anger—in fact, her ire rises when she remembers that party he'd roped her into, and the dance they'd shared. She wonders if she could pay any of her friends to take this mission in her stead. Sanbica would, if she pressured her, but then she doubts even she could subject her friend to something like _Pariston's_ company.

“Fine.” She growls out the one word, gnashing her teeth through her resignation, and when Pariston beams at her she has to bite back a much stronger response. The idea strikes her, in the future, to fill her schedule with important-sounding surgeries and meetings with invisible patients, to prevent the situation from repeating in the future.

Then, she stills as something else occurs to her. “You said it was important that we _blend in_ during the party,” she says, almost like an accusation. “My ears and nose will pose a problem then, won't they?”

“Ah.” A thoughtful look passes across Pariston's face. “I just might have a solution for that.”  


  


  
They fly, first class at Pariston's insistence, from Swaldani City to Wienna; Pariston has handled every last instance of their journey, from the tickets to their luggage to a towncar transfer to a hotel situated just down the street from the Opera House. Cheadle can not see it from the tinted windows of the car or from the curb as she follows Pariston into the hotel and to their suite at the top floor.

“Everything has been made ready for our arrival,” he says. Cheadle can see that—all of the doors are ajar, the curtains thrown wide, and supplies are neatly stacked on the tables and the bed in one open bedroom. And beyond that, there are the undeniable traces of Pariston's personal involvement in the elaborate flower arrangements on the kitchen countertop and the garment bags hung over each bedroom door. She has brought everything she considers necessary—basic medical kit, basic travel toiletries and electronics—but everything else has been up to him, even their wardrobe.

“Should I be worried?” She gestures towards one garment bag, unshouldering her gear.

“Oh, most definitely,” he says, and moves towards the dining table. There's a black, padded bag and a manila envelope, from which he slides a pair of opera tickets and a set of matching false Ids. He unzips the bag, and Cheadle tries to glance over his turned shoulder at its contents, at what looks like surveillance or communications gear.

“And your contact?” She lets the words hang, unwilling to say solution as he'd phrased it earlier, without any additional information forthcoming.

“Will be arriving soon,” he adds smoothly.

“We only have so many hours to go.” They had landed just after noon, and while Cheadle knows events like these, and their patrons, pride themselves on their fashionable lateness, she is still more comfortable with a healthy buffer of time.

He continues to fiddle with the electronics—Cheadle glances over to see an open laptop, with video feeds to the interior of the opera house and a scrolling list of what appeared to be airport or train arrival schedules. Cheadle doesn't pay it much attention—he's running point for the mission, anyway, and she trusts him not to screw things up when he'd lobbied so hard for the job in the first place. If he requires her assistance, he will ask, but until then Cheadle decides she'll just stand back and watch him work.

There's a knock at the door, and Pariston moves to answer it with a spring in his step. A moment later he returns, a tall, bizarre-looking figure in green following close behind.

“This is Gitturackur,” Pariston says, after a moment of silence where Cheadle stares between the two, trying not to look at the latter's distorted face. “He is a master at body modification.”

“I can see that,” Cheadle says delicately; Gitturackur clacks his jaw together in response, the dozens of pins suspended in his flesh shining in the soft light. “One of the new Hunters, correct?”

More clacks from Gitturackur's open jaw follow, and he reaches up with surprisingly elegant fingers to pull two pins on either side of his neck free. The metal point is nearly two inches long, and she watches his skin shudder and swell before an unexpectedly smooth voice emerges from his throat.

“Correct.” His fingers move, almost faster than her eyes can keep up with, as he stows the free pins somewhere on his body. “Pariston Hill has contracted my services to aid you in normalizing your appearance.”

She gives Pariston a dubious stare; he does a good job avoiding it, the sunny smile never leaving his face, even as he makes his way towards the window and glances outside, his entire posture a study in nonchalance.

“How does that work? It doesn't exactly look painless. Gitturackur.” She stumbles a little over his name, her customary salutation falling short when Gitturackur pulls more pins from his side and holds them out for her inspection. Her eyes glowing with _Gyo_ , she can clearly see the extent of his ability.

“The pins can change any part of your body, depending on the angle and the placement.” The pins in his fingers disappear again, and then he is taking her face in his hands instead, placing his fingertips behind her jawline, and running from her ears down to her chin. She can see the similar glow of _Nen_ coating his fingers as he assessed her. “I think I can adjust both your ears and your nose with only one set of pins. It was _Nen_ that did this in the first place, right? And not a cosmetic procedure?”

She nods, and the pins he shows to her this time are shaped differently than the ball-tipped ones in his own face. These are flatter and silver in color, but still every bit as long and sharp as the others.

“These are the most inconspicuous ones I can use. They will be hidden by your hair,” he continues, and she nods again, sparing a glance at Pariston, leaning against the wall and idly cleaning his nails. While he appears to be absorbed in the task, she knows he is still very much paying attention.

“It might interfere with your own _Nen_ , since mine will be suppressing yours. Your abilities might not work, or might not work as well as usual. Your shields— _Ko_ and _Ken_ —might also suffer. I suggest using these abilities sparingly, if at all.”

Cheadle cracks a smile, and this time regards Pariston more openly. “I am not worried. I have an excellent shield. _Rat_.”

He looks up and inclines his head in her direction. It is a little worrisome that she will trade the enhancements granted to her by her transformation—her enhanced hearing and sense of smell—for the chance to look normal again and blend into the crowd at that evening's event.

“And the most important thing—”

Cheadle's ears prick up, the seriousness in Gitturackur's leaden voice drawing her focus like a magnet. “—The pins are only temporary. If they are not removed within a certain time period, the consequences can be disastrous. I will only be in the city until ten-thirty—if you cannot reach me by that point you will have to remove them yourself. If you leave them in past eleven—that's ten hours from now—your skin will warp as your body begins to reject my _Nen_. And that could be permanent.”

“I see.” Cheadle stares at the small, flat pins, aware that against the wall Pariston is intrigued by them just as much. It is a rare thing, to be let in on another Hunter's ability like this, but maybe not when Cheadle considers that Pariston has likely paid him a healthy sum for his assistance, and that it is exactly this knowledge that they have purchased.

“Then whenever you are ready,” she says, and draws her hair back and away from her shoulders.

Acupuncture is nothing new to Cheadle, and she considers this nothing but a _Nen_ -applied version of that. Then, his spindly fingers are tracing lines over her neck again, settling on a point at the very top of her jawline, behind where her natural ears would be. Then, with a sudden, sharp motion, he slides the pins fully into her head.

It drives a gasp from her body, before she feels her skin begin to swell and change, shrinking and expanding with a feeling that's more pressure than pain, until once again she can breathe through her nose—her normal nose, and not the one she's grown used to, and it takes her a moment to realize she can no longer hear the traffic outside. She can barely even hear the hum of the air conditioning unit, hidden in the corner of the room. She blinks, through hazy eyes, as her sense of balance seems to shift and tilt. She stumbles two steps back, and already Gitturackur is replacing the two extracted pins back in the sides of his throat, his own skin shimmering and distending until his only response to Pariston's reminder of his advance payment is a series of toneless clacks.

He accompanies Gitturackur to the door, and when he returns to Cheadle's side she is all-too-aware of how his attention is drawn to her changed features. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yes.” It's a strange feeling, and already she can sense the foreign smoothness of Gitturackur's _Nen_ , lurking under her skin. She's already thinking of ways that an ability like that could be adapted medically, and planning future tests on using her own healing _Nen_ in such a fashion, like a single pinpoint instead of a wash. Her expression twists as he draws closer; like always, there is little about his attention that is the least bit honest. “Your concern is touching.”

“Is it?” He reaches for her, his hands seeking the shell of her ear, but at the last moment she turns and his fingertips only brush the edge of her hair. “I admit, it's going to take some getting used to, for me.”

She snorts, busying herself with straightening the edges of her sleeves and re-positioning her glasses. Pariston leaves her side to return to his electronics, checking them briefly before once more moving to glance out the window.

“I was counting on my heightened senses to assist us during the mission,” Cheadle says, after a pause. “I won't be as much help to you as I'd like. And if it comes to combat, my defenses won't be as they should. It's part of the trade-off.”

“Of course it'll come to combat.” His voice is unusually calm, even as his eyes have a glint of something deeply unpleasant. “I'll enjoy protecting you, Cheadle.”

Her cheeks flush, and from across the room Pariston begins to laugh. “Don't joke about that!”

He laughs even harder, to Cheadle's dismay. “In fact, you shouldn't joke at all. We're on a mission! We should take it seriously.”

“I don't see why you're so worried. I always get my target,” he says, turning from the window to glance at Cheadle. “You should know that.”

She does, and that would worry her more if he was directing his attentions towards herself or her Chairman. The little games they play around the office are generally harmless, and what more she cannot prove, even despite her best efforts. She is reminded of a similar party they both attended, not too long ago, and how hard he had tried to recruit her, and how much harder he had worked to hide his most unsavory side from her prying mind.

Instead, she hums in response, feeling a strange kind of sentimentality when her right ear begins to itch.

“What time is it now? How much longer until—”

Cheadle cuts him off with an airy wave of one gloved hand. “Five-point-five hours until the event begins. Nine-point-five hours until the pins need to come out. I can still keep a steady countdown. Rat.”

“Of course. I'll leave that to you, then,” Pariston says. “That's an awful lot of time. I've already ordered our meals.” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “But what else can we do?”

Cheadle moves to one of the open doorways and casts one, long glance back at him. “And here I was thinking you needed the time to get ready.”  


  


  
She has to admit he chose well, for her. The dress is a darker green than she is used to wearing, and clings to her upper body in an empire waist and flows out in long layers, with a slit on one side for dancing. At first, the lack of sleeves and the lace covering her neck and back are a source of concern, but with the needles in place, she can move freely without the harm accidental skin contact would normally cause.

She doesn't recognize herself in the mirror, not at first. She stares, moving only inches away from the glass, and taps the side of her face with one finger. She tugs on her ears, and blows her nose with tissues from an ornamental holder shaped like a fan.

The bags had included jewelry, which she eschews, and shoes, which fit her perfectly. There are no gloves, though, and the omission is so purposeful that Cheadle scowls at the empty garment bag as if it was a stand-in for the man who packed it.

Even if she can, she can't imagine going without. Luckily, she packed an extra pair, the only formal gloves she owns, in white silk to the elbow. She pulls them on, stretching her fingers, and covering up the skin that Pariston would have otherwise left empty. She looks younger—the last time she had looked like this, she was just starting out as a Hunter, before thoughts of joining the Zodiacs were ever an aspiration, and when she was still deciding on an ability—but even then, wearing gloves was something of a necessity, from her medical studies, so the transition from latex to cloth was not as jarring as she would've thought. And after awhile, she didn't miss the physical contact. She still got plenty of it from working in the hospitals, healing her patients.

She exits the room to see Pariston already waiting in the kitchen, nibbling on one of the leftover sandwiches.

“My dear Cheadle! You look beautiful!” The surprise on his face is short-lived, but it's replaced rather quickly with a glowing, appreciative delight. Then, he spins from side to side, showing off his own outfit. “Do you like it? What do you think?”

She gives Pariston a once-over and attempts to look completely unimpressed. “There are no words.”

“I knew that dress would be perfect for you. It's very on-trend,” he says, lightly. “You're lucky in that.”

They walk, not arm in arm—although he offers his upon their exit from the hotel, and she breezes past him as if she doesn't even register the offer—down the street towards the opera house, past lines of limousines and town cars unloading men and women dressed no less spectacularly than they are.

Pariston wears an immaculately cut three-piece suit in dark gray, with slim sleeves and tapered legs. The dress shirt is white, and the green silk tie is a near-perfect match to Cheadle's own dress. On him, with his hair artfully styled and his body shrouded in cologne, the effect is nowhere near as repulsive as Cheadle would like it to be.

“Countdown,” he says lightly, his hands resting in his pockets, his posture the kind of relaxed sophistication she thought reserved for catalogues and campaign models. It's entirely deliberate, of that she is sure.

“Four-point-five hours for the pins. Plenty of time. Rat.” She pauses, tilting her head. “The target has yet to arrive at the party.”

“But his plane—independent, and very hard to track, if I do say so myself—did land an hour ago,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “And the target's wife _is_ here. And as far as I know, none of the event security know _Nen_. Still, I've suppressed mine. And your _Zetsu_ is quite impressive, Cheadle.”

She makes a face at that. And then another at his sudden laughter.

“You should know,” he says, and slings an arm around her shoulders to pull her in closer, “that your face is much more expressive now than it's ever been before.” Her chagrin seems to brighten his mood even further. “It's a good look.”

“And you're wasting your flattery. Rat.”

He sighs and settles back, still watching her from the corner of his eye. “So encouraging. Look at us, bickering like an old married couple. We already fit our roles so well. Or have you forgotten?”

She has, and the reminder is settling unpleasantly in her stomach. They're supposed to be pretending to be married, after all, and while she thought he'd milk the opportunity to make her uncomfortable she realizes he hasn't even begun. “You have the tickets?”

“Of course. Between us, I'm the responsible one.”

“Oh, I highly doubt _that_.” She knows she'll regret it, but Cheadle cannot resist rising to his bait.

“Then how else would you cast us? Did I marry you for your money? Am I perhaps your second husband?”

She glances at him, unsettled by just how casually he speaks about their imagined future. Not that she imagines any romance herself, but the fact that he would jump straight to something so callous is as disconcerting as it is insulting.

“What else will people think?” He shrugs, his sleeves riding up over pale wrists, and after a pause, meets Cheadle's eyes. “We hardly appear to be in love. We may be many things, but we're not good actors.”

She wants to tell Pariston that while he may not _act_ , she thinks he's still very good at lying. Still, she holds her tongue, and settles for scowling at the pavement.

“Ah! And look at that. We're here.” He offers her his arm once more, and this time she dutifully accepts it, allowing him to tug her an inch closer. The building looms above them, in a rectangular, neoclassical style, with tall pillars supporting the roof facade, wide front steps, and an arched, dark amber roof to complement the brown tones in the stone used to build the walls.

A red carpet has been tacked down in front, leading up the stairs to the glass cupola that covers the front entrance. Instead of following the others heading up the carpet, Pariston leads them up the stairs on the side.

He stares up at the amber glass, his voice almost wistful. “I wonder why we don't have buildings like this back home.”

“Swaldani is a newer city,” Cheadle says. “That's why.”

“Still, we could have buildings in this fashion. You know, there's a city on the Yorubian Continent that's built smaller replicas of lots of world landmarks like this one. Have you ever been there?”

“No.”

“A little less vitriol, my dear. We _are_ married, aren't we?”

She tries again, injecting as much false sweetness to her voice as she can manage. “No, _darling_.”

“Oh, you can do better than that, I'm sure.” Still, Pariston beams at her, and when they reach the front doors he hands his tickets to the attendant. Once inside, they take a moment, as they did before, to fully take in the interior of the Wienna Opera House.

The expansive foyer is open, empty of all the rope barricades and chairs that would normally litter the floor to direct patrons up the massive marble stairs at the far end of the room. The walls at their left and right are made of wood paneling, inlaid in long rectangles, some cut at an angle to reveal the grain, buffed to a high shine. The same marble as the stairs rests under their feet, crisscrossed with pieces of red and green, to break up the sea of white. It reminds her, not unreasonably, of a cathedral. The floor will be cleared for dancing, later, but right now the guests are expected to mingle, and waiters in white jackets stroll through the crowd, balancing trays of champagne on their shoulders.

“Well,” Pariston says, taking one of Cheadle's arms with his. This time, she does not resist, and he counts that as progress. “Shall we?”

“After you.” She lets him lead her around the side of the room, where they can get a different perspective of the ball's current occupants. On the way, he grabs two flutes of champagne, and hands one to Cheadle without a word. Their path takes them close to the crowds, and a few times Cheadle brushes against another's arm or sleeve as Pariston keeps a steady wall at her left.

In a way, she is glad to have her old self returned—with her _Nen_ suppressed, she can interact with others more freely. She does not need to worry about covering her skin to limit the risk of accidental exposure. She can touch whomever she pleases without recompense.

“It's rare to find myself in a room where I know no one,” Pariston says, keeping his voice low.

“So you don't need to pretend.” The words leave her mouth before she can really think them through, and when he turns towards her, curiosity written on every line of his face, more words spill out over the first. “You don't have to hide who you really are.”

His expression turns to steel, and his grip on her arm tightens. “As you've done?”

She backpedals quickly. “That's not...it's not the same! This isn't me, you know. This is just...cosmetic.” Her voice falls flat, her prior indignance fading. The act of justifying any kind of righteousness cheapens it, even to someone trying to justifying their own.

“Oh, I know.” And like that, his eyes are suddenly less dark, and Cheadle has to wonder whether they stepped into the light or he lifted his head away from the shadow of his bangs. “While this is surprisingly fortuitous, I must say I prefer the Cheadle I know.”

His palm against her arm is much harder to ignore, his grip warm through the silk of her glove. She's reminded of just how rarely he says her name, and how much she hates the way it sounds in his mouth.

“So you want to see it?” His fingertips skim across her inner wrist before his grip re-solidifies. The absurd notion that he could be monitoring her pulse strikes her, and she realizes in her distraction that she hasn't been paying attention to his questions. “My true self, I mean.”

Cheadle pauses, staring up at him. The sudden seriousness in their conversation is not something she wants to encourage. Twisting her mouth into a grin, she tries to emulate one of Pariston's most common expressions. “I'd rather not,” she says, “That way I can continue to make up whatever I want about you, and I'm never disappointed.”

It sounds like something he would say, and that alone is what prompts the amused smile he bestows upon her. “You've never disappointed _me_. Yet.” He tugs her arm, leading them towards the stairs. “Come on, we'll get a better vantage point from up there.”

The stairs are as ornamental and oversize as every other part of the grand entry, with carved flowers and scrollwork and constellations littering the balustrades surrounding the second floor. Pariston and Cheadle find a space in one of the alcoves, overlooking the entrance, and begin to wait for their target to show himself.

“Do you like opera, Cheadle?” For a moment, she is grateful for Pariston's attempt at levity, and with the crowds thickening around them they cannot talk too loudly about anything too serious.

“Not really, no,” she answers, and the returning frown Pariston gives her is dismayed.

“So uncultured. We really must do something about that.”

Cheadle exhales through her nose, momentarily surprised at how different the sensation feels. “Aren't we already?”

He laughs, pleased, and tucks her arm tighter against his side. “So we are. But you still have a long way to go if you want to be a match for me, Cheadle.”

“I would never confront you in such a field. Rat.” She pitches her voice softer than usual, unable to completely erase her customary salutation from her speech while remaining all-too-aware of how strange it might sound to a stranger's ears. “It wouldn't make for much of a challenge.”

“You know me all too well, my dear.” He squeezes her hand, and Cheadle has to tamp down the urge to snarl a harsher reply and rip her arm out of his grasp. Instead, she smiles, her eyes sweeping across the other couples cloistered like they are against alcoves or the bannisters, and the similar expressions of rapt, absolute affection they wear as clearly as their diamonds and the patterned silks of their ties and dresses. She attempts to adopt a comparable expression, already aware of the attention they are receiving, and lets him lead her away from the railing and around the edge of the mezzanine, so they can see the room below from all angles.

As they walk, she can see Pariston watching the crowd as she has, giving the splendor of the ballroom the barest regard and the others around him with even less. It is their target who dominates his thoughts, she is sure. Their target, and Cheadle herself, she realizes, when he turns his luminous eyes and his attention back to her.

“What would you do,” he asks, taking her elbow and whispering into her ear, “if I was your husband?”

“Drink poison,” she says flatly. Then, her eyes turn thoughtful, and she looks up at him. “I changed my mind. I'd poison _you_ instead.”

He laughs as if pleased by the idea. “I'd dote on you,” he says, his smile widening further at the hint of disgust that mars Cheadle's face. “You would have everything your heart desired. It'd be the only way I could keep you, I'm sure.” He turns fully towards her, leaning close, and Cheadle's field of vision is obscured by his gray lapel and the straight lines of his chest. “You do have me for the evening. Ask for anything you like, and I will try to get it for you.”

“Anything?” She knows it's as much a bait as every other honeyed word that leaves his mouth, knows that at least half of the things he says to her are lies, but still she wants on some level to toss herself into his trap, even if just to see what would happen next.

“Anything,” he echoes.

A few options run through her mind—his liver, his secrets, a bottle of Pétrus. Instead, she looks away. “Thanks, but I think I'll pass. Rat.” The last is said to remind her yet again of who she's speaking to, lest she forget—yet again—that beneath the charm and all his attentions, he is still the same Hunter she knows. That she does not trust him in the slightest—and that of everything he's ever asked of her, trust has never been among them.

“Have you ever been to an opera ball before?” he asks; a smattering of applause rises up from the crowd below them, and below the railing she can see the members of a small string orchestra taking up their chairs.

“No.” She lets him lead her further down, so they have a better view of the staircase. “That shouldn't surprise you.”

“It's traditional for the debutantes to open with a waltz,” he says, gesturing as the floor begins to clear. “Following that, the other couples will have a chance to join. Everyone, including us, will dance together. No one ever attends the opera ball alone.”

“So if our target was going to show, they would be here by now.” Cheadle wishes, for the first time that evening, for her enhanced ears. If she could hear more than just Pariston's whispers, the unintelligible din of the crowd and the booming voice of the announcer introducing the group of young women and men who could only be the debutantes and their escorts. “I don't see them yet.”

“I do.” Pariston drops her arm, instead lifting a hand to her jaw to turn her head to the left, directing her gaze to the other end of the mezzanine. To anyone observing, the gesture would look intimate, and Cheadle feels a flush rising in her cheeks at the unexpected contact. Pariston leans closer still—with the debutantes entering, the balustrades have become more crowded, and while she understands the need to preserve their cover, she cannot help her resentment at how he takes advantage of it—and drops his voice. “I understand your _En_ is weaker than normal—they both have _Nen_ , the husband and wife. He arrived about ten minutes ago, but she has been here longer, keeping a vigil at the mezzanine corner. It was undoubtedly arranged—their behavior is not random. Predictable, even. We will keep at a distance, do as they do.”

They look like their pictures—the target, clad in a black suit whose only nod to personality is the patterned orange tie, with his hair combed and posture remarkably relaxed. Cheadle thinks it has much to do with the woman at his side, one arm threaded lightly through his.

“How long have they been together?” she finds herself asking. She is certain he will know the answer.

“Married for eight years,” Pariston answers smoothly. “He was a spy even before then, how scandalous. I doubt she took it well, learning that news.”

“Better than she probably took his defection.” Such scorn is typically beyond her, and she can feel Pariston tense at her side in surprise, before once again a proud, pleased smile rises on his face.

“Well done.” There's a hint of his smile even in his voice. “Imagine that. Married to a traitor.” He sighs, something affected and staged, and the word _traitor_ has never sounded so pointed to her ears.

“Perhaps we should adjust our own cover story,” Cheadle says, and once more she feels the undertow of Pariston's words pulling her in. “Do you have any objections to being cast as a traitor? I admit it doesn't stretch the imagination. _Pariston_.”

When she glances up at him, his eyes are impossibly dark. “You may imagine whatever you'd like about me, my dear. It might even be true.”

Below their feet, the opening bars of a waltz begin, the strings so loud that Cheadle starts, stepping back in her surprise. Her shoulder bumps against Pariston's, and he grasps her arms to steady her, dropping them without protest when she shrugs him off. The notes are deep, the rhythm more strident than romantic, as she would've expected for such a dance, and when he speaks Pariston's laughing voice in her ear is louder to her than all the violins combined.

“Steady...there will be time for us to dance, later. But your impatience is flattering.”

She wishes to trod on his foot. Instead, she chances a glance at their target, watching the debutantes and whispering to his wife. Perhaps they had met at such an event, many years ago—it would not surprise her if most of the older couples around them started off no differently than the young men and women below them, dressed all in white. Pariston _had_ mentioned that the target had a connection to this event.

Around them, people begin to stir, and Cheadle can tell the waltz is beginning to die down. Pariston takes her hand, and begins to tug her down the mezzanine, towards the stairs. She glances down; the dozen or so couples on the floor spin in perfectly choreographed circles, their white skirts swirling. Each woman wears a different colored wreath of flowers in her hair. On the opposite side, the target is moving as well, following his wife as she leads him closer to the staircase. They are not the only ones; all around them, the crowds wait with anticipation for the call to waltz.

The music draws to a close, the last note prolonged and low, before the loud voice of the concertmaster barks out, “ _Alles Waltzer_!”

Couples move forward like the tide, taking their places alongside the debutantes and slowly filling the expansive floor. Their target is already moving down the stairs with measured, elegant steps, and Pariston and Cheadle follow at a distance, arm in arm.

They find a spot on the floor, off to the side, near one of the marble columns that hold up the balustrades above. When Pariston slides his hand around her back, stepping a little closer than necessary, he meets her eyes and winks, almost too quick for her to notice. Her cheeks flush, any indignance caught in her throat as the fingers of his free hand tighten around hers, bringing her hand up to the height of her shoulder. They hold the form for a few moments, waiting for the last few couples, and when the music starts Pariston steps forward at the same instant that Cheadle steps back, beginning the waltz with a few slow, slight steps, as if reaquanting themselves with the dance. The music that plays is familiar to Cheadle's ears, something classic and simple and played to beautiful perfection by the strings. Easy enough to follow along with. She would have no excuse for tripping, or stepping on her partner's foot, and as they swivel, trading places along the line of dancers, their targets finally come into her sight.

“Having fun, my dear?” He guides her through the next few steps, and they spin again. “This place really is quite beautiful. Do you think you would ever attend an opera in the future?”

Cheadle adopts a thoughtful expression. “Why not? I'd certainly like to improve on this experience. Maybe I'd bring someone else. Really make it special. Rat.”

His resounding laugh is close to her heightened ears. “How does the quote go? 'The lady does protest too much'. It almost makes me think you're enjoying yourself.”

“Well, you're often wrong. Wouldn't surprise me if it happened again.” Blithely, she speaks the words more into his shoulder than to his face, turning and stepping through each formation without waiting for her partner's lead. Pariston's hand tightens against her back, to slow her pace, but she ignores him and bites her cheek to hide her smile. She can enjoy herself in a grand gallery as easily as she can in a study, alone—and she tells herself that Pariston's presence isn't even a blip on the radar of her enjoyment. She will not give him the power over her to affect her in such a way.

He holds his arm up and she spins under it, catching sight of their targets again. The woman's head is tucked against her husband's shoulder, her short black hair curled tight against her scalp. After a moment, her eyes drift up to lazily cross the room, and Cheadle ducks her gaze back to Pariston's shoulder. If she had her old ears, she could hear anything they might say to one another. If they were closer, she might even be able to hear their heartbeats, to know if they sensed any danger or disquiet.

Instead, she has nothing of theirs to inform her. Only Parison's leaden heartbeat as she tips her head away from his chest. Only the smell of his cologne and the sound of his subtle humming along to the string waltz. She glances at the couple to her right; they are both older than Cheadle herself, in late middle age, and would guess from the way they dance that they notice nothing and no one beyond the other. On another spin, she makes a study out of the dancers surrounding their target, and can decode the nature of their relationships with the ease of breathing. The young ones in love. An older couple, with mobility issues, dancing slowly, uncaring about the form of their waltz. Two who must have recently had a fight.

And it occurs to her then, just as clearly, that to anyone looking who is as used to reading people as they are, the relationship between Cheadle and her partner will fall into no category.

“We stick out,” she whispers, tilting her head up to look him in the eye to gauge his reaction. He would have been looking, as she has. “They would have noticed. Anyone would have.”

“Marriage is not love.” They turn in sync, and he inclines his head. “This is a part of my plan, as is everything else.”

“You want them to approach us?” She cannot believe what she is hearing—as if, perhaps, her new untrustworthy ears have betrayed her in some new way. “Why?”

“I would be interested in hearing them speak before we apprehend them. People tend to change, when they are incarcerated. Amateurs panic. And the professionals tighten their mouths. I'd like to know them, first.”

She thinks of it like an experiment, a control to compare the later tests against. Of course he would think of them in such a way, like that is all they are to him. A temporary amusement, an experiment, a truth to uncover. And then she thinks that perhaps he is abiding by her earlier request, and letting her know his true self, if only just a glimpse.

“You should have let me know. Rat.”

He dips her, slowly, the music drawing to a close. “Your reactions otherwise would have been imperfect. And you were flawless.”

Her face colors, the scowl she would normally give him buried under a new feeling of uncertainty at his implication that the others were watching _her_ , not him, and it was her that he had hidden his own actions behind. He was using her as a shield, when he was supposed to do the very opposite.

“How very clever.” And she rises, watching him again as the music tapers off and he, like the others, lifts their hands together to clap for the band. She takes in the pride in his eyes and the smug lift to his mouth. He claps with a leisurely, irregular rhythm, staring straight ahead. She joins them, her gloves muffling the sound. And she tries to smile.

As soon as the applause dies down and the couples begin to move—a few to leave the floor, and others to consolidate it and fill in the empty spaces—Pariston takes her arm and begins to lead her to the side, towards the bar set up along the edge of the ballroom.

“Let's get a drink,” he says. She doesn't question him, not if this is to be the next step in his plan. And a part of her is grateful that she no longer has to dance with him, even if the feeling of his palm against the lace at her back is still engraved in her mind.

They are one of the first to arrive, taking up space right in front of the bartender. Pariston keeps his elbows spread on the countertop, and engages the man behind the counter with a sunny smile. He begins to order something complicated, dictating the volumes of each different liquor and the exact steps of preparation.

“And a whiskey, neat, for me,” he finishes, giving Cheadle a wink. He then removes a twenty from his pocket, and dangling it between two fingers, drops it into a woefully empty tip jar.

The bartender, with assiduous focus, turns to the task of assembling the drinks. Pariston ignores him, turning to Cheadle and draping an arm across the bartop, squaring his shoulders and taking up as much room as his body possibly can. Cheadle, for her part, becomes increasingly uncomfortable as they act like rocks in a stream, as more and more people mill past them and stop for a flute of champagne or, in a more futile effort, to get the bartender's attention for a custom drink. At least three people knock against her as they pass, but she doesn't budge from the picture they've painted—clearly together, appearing to be in conversation without even saying a word.

The drink arrives. No ice. Pale pink, with a curl of orange peel floating on the surface. “Drink up, love,” Pariston says, watching the way she eyes it with veiled distaste and smiling at the way the bartender immediately rushes off to the other side of the curved bar.

At his back, hidden from view behind the dark gray planes of his suit, she can hear first the rapping of knuckles against the bartop, followed by an embittered sigh.

“So much trouble, just for a drink.”

Pariston turns, and Cheadle with him, to find their target, standing with his wife behind him, trying to slide into what little open space remains in front of the bar.

“I find a healthy tip helps,” Pariston says, inclining his head towards the jar, where his twenty sits, unburdened, with only a few coins scattered beneath it.

The man's eyebrows rise, but he merely chuckles and reaches into his inside suit pocket and pulls out his wallet, flipping it open on the bartop and rifling through it for a fifty-jenni note before making eye contact with one of the bartenders passing by, shaker in hand.

“—Be with you in a moment, sir—”

And the man's note joins Pariston's in the jar, almost suffocating it. “Isn't that the way things work,” he says.

Before he can snap his wallet shut, Pariston catches his arm. “I couldn't help but notice, but is that a Shinrinkan note?”

The wallet stays open in the man's still hands. He makes no move to either close it or remove the note to prove Pariston's statement, merely searches Pariston's remarkably open face with his eyes until she sees his shoulders relax.

“It is,” he says.

Pariston continues to prattle on, his beaming smile and self-conscious mannerisms a total shift from what she expects, muffling her reaction behind a sip of her drink. And he called himself a bad actor.

“You know, most countries, even new ones, use the jenni note for their currency, but countries with... _political differences_...sometimes withdraw from the system and use their own, or create a trade embargo to create their own financial system. Right after the revolution, Kakin printed notes like that, didn't it? Their leader wanted to put his face on their money.”

Cheadle stiffens, but keeps her eyes low, over the rim of her glass. She can feel the eyes of the other woman on her, and she fears if she looks up for even a moment their precarious advantage will be lost.

“What is it you say?” Pariston continues, as two drinks—lowball glasses, with some kind of liquor inside poured over large, spherical ice cubes—are placed in front of their target. He lifts his own untouched drink. “Long live the King?”

“Long live the King,” the man's voice echoes, emphasizing every consonant, before he takes a deep, slow sip of his drink.

“It's an uncommon man who has ready knowledge about such things,” he finally says, setting down his glass.

“I work for Azian Continental,” Pariston says, naming the largest bank on the continent.

“Ah.” For the first time, the woman speaks, her voice like syrup. “So you handle money all day?”

“Nothing as banal as that. I'm an auditor.” Cheadle can see the gleam in his eyes, something she recognizes after spending so long with him. It's strange, seeing him work over someone else instead of interfering with Cheadle herself or her colleagues. “Valley, Mr. and Mrs.”

He introduces them both with a wave of his hand, and when his eyes meet Cheadle's she imagines how his aura would glow at the admission, if he were not tamping it down with a _Zetsu_ just short of perfection.

“Mr. Valley.” And the target offers his hand first to Pariston to shake, and Cheadle extends her free hand towards his wife, who takes it in a deceptively light grip.

“Elora Malvan,” she says. “And this is Ferdinand.”

“Charmed.” Cheadle finds herself copying Pariston's style of reception, and when she glances at him he beams back at her in approval.

“We're here to celebrate our anniversary,” Elora continues. “We met here, at this ball.”

“How romantic!” Pariston clasps his hands together, and for all his apparent sincerity she knows just how much he is mocking them. “Our story was a little different.”

“Oh?” Ferdinand asks. “And how did you meet?”

Pariston nods solemnly. “I stole her from another man. My brother.”

“I wanted his last name,” Cheadle says suddenly, biting the inside of her cheek to stifle her laughter.

“Any children?” And now Ferdinand sounds only bored, but Cheadle still takes note of the way his eyes move between them, as if he can't quite figure them out.

It is Pariston who answers, again with a solemn sincerity that Cheadle isn't sure if it makes her want to laugh or punch him. “We are trying. But so far we have not been blessed.”

“You?” Cheadle turns back to Elora, knowing if she looks at Pariston and his glittering, unpleasant smile she'll punish him for that last statement.

“Oh no. Such a thing was not in our cards.”

Cheadle studies the woman's unlined face, and tries to offer what tacit sympathy she can, without forgetting just who these people are. “Cards change.”

“Of course. As do all things.”

“Not us.” Ferdinand interrupts his wife, and takes one of her hands in his. “We have not changed, and nor has our love.”

A smile rises to her lips, and she leans into his touch, pushing one elbow lightly against his side. “You just love having someone to complain to.”

“And you, my love, enjoy having someone to complain _about_.” Pariston slings an arm around Cheadle's waist in a mockery of the Malvan's embrace, and looks fondly at the top of her head. “Without me, what would you do?”

“Well.” Cheadle adopts a thoughtful expression, blinking up at him through her glasses. “Your brother's still single.”

The surprise on his face is worth it, as are the conflicting looks on the faces of their targets. “Another drink, darling?”

Cheadle has barely made a dent in hers, but the crowd around them is swelling again after the end of another dance; where all around them the bartenders try to hustle patrons along, Pariston's tip grants them an obsequious breadth. When Ferdinand offers his hand to Elora, she takes it, both regarding the pair of Hunters with the same cool amusement they'd shown for most of their conversation.

“Well, enjoy the rest of the ball. Perhaps we will see you at the next.” Elora offers a society smile which Cheadle attempts to return.

“This is our first one, so perhaps not,” Pariston answers. “But things may change.”

They part, and Pariston finishes his drink, setting down the empty glass and clearing his throat. Across the room, Cheadle can see Elora leading Ferdinand back up the staircase. When they reach the top, she loses sight of them.

“What did I tell you? Predictable.”

Cheadle hums, tapping her gloved fingers against the bartop to the time of the newest dance. “Do you really have a brother?”

“No,” he says.

“Are you lying?”

“Maybe.” There's the same glitter in his eyes in the absence of his _Nen_.

Cheadle wrinkles her nose. “Why that?”

“I thought I would invent a scandal,” he says. “They are so familiar with betrayal, themselves, so why not give us something in common?”

“You're unbelievable.” She glances up, to the balustrades she can see; very few people linger there, and their targets are not among them. “They went up, by the way.”

“Perhaps they are here for more than just the party,” Pariston says. “We should follow.”

After a pause, he continues. “What's your countdown?”

“Oh, finally remembered about that, did you? _Rat_.” She finally slips back into her customary salutation, and smiles despite herself. “Less than two hours for the pins. One-point-one-five to be precise.”

“Then we shouldn't waste any more time.”

“Is that what you call what we've been doing?” Cheadle takes his arm when he offers it, letting him tug her closer as their space at the bar is taken almost immediately, cutting a path through the crowd and skirting the edge of the dance floor to once more ascend the grand staircase.

“Not _my_ time,” he corrects her with a grin like a stab from a scalpel. “Do you know what else is up here?”

She glances first down one long hallway, then turns to look in the other direction. Before them stand a series of large, ornamental doors, open to an interior lobby for the mezzanine levels of the opera house. There are maybe a few dozen scattered around them, mostly using the elevation and privacy to watch the dancing below or engage in conversation. Either way, no one is looking at them, and she can see no hint of Elora's flame-orange dress or Ferdinand's slim, tall build anywhere.

“No,” she says. “Back staircases? Restrooms?”

“Offices,” he answers, directing his gaze down the left hallway. “The administrative offices for the opera. I'm almost convinced that's where they've gone.”

“To meet with someone? Or to retrieve something?” She glances down the hallway again; it splits in two at the end, and despite how she squints she can't read the signs posted at the top. “To make a phone call?”

“That's a likely possibility. Either to confirm transit away from the city or to alert a handler that they've been made. I think we were too good for that, though.”

“This traitor,” Cheadle says, remembering Pariston's earlier words. “What was his scandal?”

“As I understand it, Kakin officials try to curry favor with whichever branch of the royal family will have them. The King has many wives, and this man was apparently collecting and selling information from one who became jealous that her position was being usurped by another. He learned something that made him run, and we've been tasked with bringing him in before whatever he learned gets out.”

Cheadle frowns as she tries to process this, at the clean way things were painted when the government themselves were likely the ones who had given the Association the assignment in the first place, and the words she kept hearing were so suspect. Scandal. Betrayal. Information.

“Dangerous information, to be sure,” she says slowly, as they approach the end of the hallway. Beyond it, a sign directs guests to the right to access the opera's offices. “But to whom?”

He gives her another brief look of approval, and raises a single finger to his lips as they approach the first of the offices.

The doors are set into little nooks in the walls on either side of the hallway. While those on one side are closets, the others are paneled at the top with glass, and when Cheadle ducks into the first alcove she cannot see anyone in the tiny office. Pariston shakes his head in agreement, and they continue on.

The second office contains a single aide, preoccupied with their computer, but at the third they see a pair of familiar heads posed in front of a modern, slim desk, the curled cord of a phone tangled around one of Ferdinand's hands. They both face away from the door, towards the large window, with what Cheadle suspects is a near-perfect view of the street beside the opera house, where all the cars had been unloading earlier.

She cannot hear anything inside the room—not surprising, that rooms surrounding an opera theatre would have some soundproofing, and the same advantage that lets them watch their targets prevents them from reading either of their lips. Then, Ferdinand straightens, and Pariston grabs Cheadle by the arm and hauls her back, around the door and down the hallway to the nook by the first office, their shoulders pressed tight to the doorframe to keep from being seen. There's a click, and a whine as a door opens, somewhere past them, and footsteps, just a few, of a person turning in place in front of their door.

More footsteps come from the main hallway, in the opposite direction, and Cheadle panics. Boxed in, they have nowhere to run. Behind him, Pariston tests the doorknob of the office. Locked.

Pariston's hand is still a vice around her arm, and when the footsteps come closer Cheadle leans her head back to see a man in a white waiter's coat, carrying an empty tray that will only block them from view for another moment. And from the other direction, their target approaches.

She looks back up at Pariston, who brings his free hand up to her face, tilting her chin up. Then, he is kissing her, muffling whatever sound of surprise she makes with a warning press of his hand against her arm before he moves it to her waist to guide her further into the alcove, both shielding her with his body and making their embrace look more convincing.

He pulls back for a breath and then he is kissing her again. He tastes sharp from the drinks and sweet from something else, and his mouth is as insistent as his hands, soft lips moving over hers and he tries to coax her into responding. And she does, a moment later, with reluctance that he interprets as a challenge. The hands gripping her waist slide down to her hips, pulling her flush against him, and when she gasps he deepens the kiss. One of her hands shoots up on impulse—she's going to slap him, she _should_ slap him, but they're on a mission and their target is walking right past them, and they won't blow their cover until the absolute last minute—so instead she wraps her hand around the base of his tie, tightening the knot just enough to send a message. Instead, he groans, pulling back before pressing his lips to hers again, and one of his hands slides up her body to splay his fingers across her back. The lace is sheer enough that his hand is directly touching her skin, his palm hot and unyielding, and that more than anything is more intimate than anything else he has done to her yet. She breaks the kiss, dipping her head down, and he presses his lips against her hairline instead, over the spot where her ears would normally be. She glances over his shoulder, at the retreating back of their target, and when Pariston inhales deeply she grips his tie even tighter.

Ferdinand walks alone, and when he disappears around the corner Cheadle and Pariston both chance a glance in the direction he came to see nothing but an empty hallway.

“They split up,” she whispers, already knowing that if they crept back to the other office they would find it empty. She remembers Elora's impossibly high-heeled shoes, and how intentionally silent she must have walked in them. “Why?”

Instead of an answer, Pariston merely looks forward. “Countdown.”

“Less than an hour. Not enough time.” She straightens, suddenly, uncomfortably aware of how the numbers don't add up. “Gitturackur leaves in less than a half hour. We won't make it.”

“We will handle it on our own. You can put your safety in my hands.”

He still won't look at her, but his arms never waver from her side. And then he turns, his eyes cold and bright as he takes her arm, and together he leads her from the alcove and down, in the direction their target had taken. It feels like how they'd walked down the grand staircase, following Ferdinand even then, just as much a parade as it had been a hunt. Maybe, for Pariston, those two things are one in the same.

The building is symmetrical, with hallways like a T-bracket, and as they follow the path—and crossing briefly back in view of the mezzanine lobby, with its revelers still self-engrossed and the music audible from even that distance—and continuing on and around the same corner Ferdinand had taken. The hallway is plain and unremarkable, serviceable but clearly not meant to be seen by guests for more than the emergency exit at the farthest end.

There is no alarm, and when they open the door and step inside, it is to a dimly lit sea of concrete with thick iron railings and no windows. They take the steps down, noiselessly, and on the landing below Ferdinand comes into view, leaning against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles and his hands stuffed loosely in his jacket pockets.

“We had to know which of us was the target,” he says, and while his posture is relaxed he does look surprised at seeing them.

“You, of course,” Pariston answers.

“And how do you know I didn't tell her whatever it is you're hunting me down for?”

“Then she wouldn't be brought in. She'd be eliminated.” Pariston has yet to drop his _Zetsu_ , so Cheadle holds hers as well, limited though her _Nen_ may be.

“What a strange duo. Married hitmen. I haven't heard of such a thing outside of the Zoldycks.” Ferdinand hasn't moved, and Cheadle finds her attention drawn to his hands, to the confined space he'd chosen for a confrontation.

Pariston laughs at that. “Oh, I am not nearly so lucky.”

“They didn't split up,” Cheadle says, suddenly. “She would never have left him for long.”

“You're the clever one,” is all Ferdinand gets out, before there is a shimmer of _Nen_ in the air, blue like a cloud, and then there is a tremendous bang and the air heats to a boil in the wake of a massive jet of flame.

Cheadle leaps down, around the railing to use the underside of the staircase as cover. Above, Pariston leaps _up_ at the last moment, and the flames rush over both him and Ferdinand. A moment later, the flames burn out, and Cheadle can see the blue of Ferdinand's ability for what it is—a massive shield, strong enough that there is no trace whatsoever of the other attack's efficacy.

Enhancement _Nen_ , then, but a defensive application. And Elora, standing at the top of the stairs above them, her hands framing her mouth, had been the bearer of the flames.

Then, she remembers Pariston, who lands between them once more, both arms crossed in front of his chest. Smoke pours off of his body, the once immaculate dark gray fabric singed and burned black in places, but he otherwise appears unhurt.

“Impressive,” he says, and a slight glance to the side gives Cheadle her cue. Standing between them as he is, he has no choice but to show one of them his back, and when he chooses to face Elora, he is giving Cheadle the task of watching Ferdinand. The task is clear—protect her partner, incapacitate her target. In her mind, the seconds tick on.

Elora takes another deep breath and on her exhale, more flames spring to life, searing another path towards Pariston, who ducks the column of fire and moves closer, rising the last few stairs to reach for her arms or knock her off-balance.

Cheadle does the same, surging forward and blocking one of Ferdinand's punches with an elbow before trying for one of her own. He dodges it easily enough, but she works harder at closing the gap between them, using the confined space to her advantage and knowing that if she is inside the range of his shield it will be rendered ineffective.

Elora can only breathe fire while she exhales, Cheadle realizes, as she does her best to back her target against the side wall and away from the descending steps at her back. Pariston drives a fist into her stomach the moment the flames cease, and she staggers backwards, wide-eyed.

Ferdinand is good at moving his aura around his body at breakneck speed, blocking Cheadle's every attack and using his height and longer limbs to try and get past her. She keeps to close combat, refusing to give him the space to fully carry out an attack, limiting him to brief jabs and punches.

Behind them, Elora breathes flames straight up into the air, one of Pariston's hands around her neck.

And then, it hits. Pain strikes her along the side of her head, racing up her jaw and around her skull. Gitturackur's _Nen_ , breaking down; the pins, holding back the transformation that would otherwise fade in a moment should she remove them. Cheadle can barely breathe, can barely see through the pain, and then one of Ferdinand's fists makes contact along her right shoulder, spinning her into the wall and down, folding into a heap and blinking dully through the delay as her mind struggles to keep her fighting.

Ferdinand runs, past her and down the stairs to the next landing, feet stamping in a wild, erratic pattern down the concrete and she can hear it, she thinks, through another haze of pain. Then, Elora breaks free of Pariston's hold and leaps, swinging her legs over the railing and landing on the step just beyond Cheadle. Pariston follows, his long legs making the leap look elegant, and he spins, one hand still gripping the lower railing, and lands a kick against her turned back. She falls, down the stairs, and Cheadle sees it almost in slow motion as the pain clears for one powerful second before it consumes her again.

Then, there is silence. Ferdinand does not return, and Elora does not move.

Pariston kneels by her side, pushing up damaged sleeves and taking her face in his hands, turning her head and pushing back her hair to reveal the pins.

“These have to come out,” he says, and Cheadle is seized with an immediate panic.

“Still have...twenty minutes...” she gasps, at the valley of another wave of pain. She wants to give an accurate record. “And fifty-one seconds.”

She thinks he's smiling at her, his aura glittering like the sweat at his temples and the shine of _Gyo_ in his eyes, and then he is tilting her head back and all she can see are the underside of the concrete steps and the lights sunken into their centers. The pins pulse against her jaw. And then Pariston takes one in each hand and pulls them free in one seamless motion.

It's nearly unbearable—it had been more shock than pain to get them first inserted, and any pain had been minor and fleeting—but now, after the fight and so much time, her _Nen_ wars with the foreign intrusion, and she breathes heavily as she adjusts to it. Even that is different, now—her features returned to normal, but the act still feels unusual. Her ears itch, and she is aware of everything she had blocked out—the sound of Elora's shallow breathing, the smell of charred fabric and Pariston's heady cologne.

She reaches out with one gloved hand and pushes him away. “I'm fine,” she says, even as he grabs her hand to haul her to her feet.

“We have to move fast, while he's still close,” he says. The pins, Cheadle notices, are gone. He hasn't discarded them, nor had he offered them back to her.

“I didn't ask for your help.” Stubbornly, she refuses to move, only taking the first step down when Pariston descends the stairs to stand beside Elora's body.

“Is she?”

“Only unconscious,” Cheadle answers. She can hear both her heartbeat and her breathing. “But very much alive.”

“Come on.” Pariston waves his hand towards her, before he spins on his heel and continues down the stairs, to the ground level and presumably, a door to the outside. “Unless you insist on wasting any more of my time.”

The statement, on the heels of his earlier, similar words, makes her gnash her teeth.

“So,” she says, stamping her feet down each step and ducking under his arm when he swings open the door to the outside and holds it out for her. “You said I could have anything I asked of you tonight. But it's too much if I ask for your time?”

He releases the door, and brings his hand forward, almost to her back. Although he does not touch her, Cheadle can still feel the weight of his palm, just barely brushing the lace. Then she steps away, and he drops his arm.

“Ask,” he says.

She is stubbornly silent, fists shaking at her side. She will not give him the satisfaction.

“Then I will ask something of you,” he says. “Use that _En_ of yours and find him for me.”

She sucks in a breath and imagines fire racing down her throat. A moment later, she throws her _En_ forward, nearly three blocks, and glances forward, at a spot halfway around the next corner, hidden in an alley between the buildings across the street from the Opera House. A prearranged meeting place between him and Elora.

“There he is,” she says, the words tasting like ash. Her _En_ is one of her strongest techniques, honed after years of working in busy hospitals with the necessity of monitoring every patient in the building, and a part of her hates using it on this matter, at his command.

“Let us approach from the side.” Pariston pulls the edges of his jacket closer to hide the bright white of his dress shirt, and glances over at Cheadle. “Are you cold?”

“No.” She can't wait to get out of the shoes, though, and she wouldn't say no to a meal at one of the city's trendy cafes or some late-night room service.

The roads surrounding the Opera House are wide, with tall trees in the medians and the traffic at that hour is minimal, with only a few cars stationed around the periphery to ferry away any guests wishing to leave the party early. It still has many hours to go, and a part of her heart seizes when she looks back up at the grand entrance, and catches sight of a few whirling dancers through the windows.

They cross the street, Pariston walking close at her side, and when they head further away from the Opera House they are the only pedestrians on the street. Ferdinand's _En_ must not have nearly the range of hers, or even Pariston's, but she can tell when he first notices their presence, right on the edge of the alley.

They step into the opening, in a slice of moonlight between the shadows, and block Ferdinand's escape.

“You look surprised,” Pariston says, stepping forward. “Expected someone else?”

When Ferdinand sees Cheadle's face, his expression shifts, his mouth curling as he takes in her ears and nose. “Actually, yes.”

Cheadle's gloved hands form into fists, and she resists the urge to growl out her contempt. It is Pariston instead who surges forward and meets Ferdinand in combat, slipping inside the reaches of his shield and using a series of lethally precise punches and kicks to drive him against the wall. Cheadle could almost admire his forms, but she's never really cared for watching people fight like this.

So she enters the fray, drawing her _Nen_ to her fingers and sweeping them in an arc, skirting Ferdinand and sweeping around Pariston like she had in their dance before attempting to drive her fingers into the skin of their target's neck. The first strike misses, but she lands the second, pushing her _Nen_ against the muscles in his neck in the same way Gitturackur had applied it to herself. Ferdinand drops, unconscious, and she stares down at his body with a weary satisfaction.

“He's all yours,” she tells Pariston, stepping away. He already has his phone out, dialing.

“I'll call for the car.”

“Where are we going?” She hardly expects them to interrogate him here, and while she knows Pariston will have prepared for every eventuality, this is something he has not shared with her.

“The airfield,” he says, mouth widening into a glittering grin at her surprise. “Where else?”  


  


  
The same towncar that picked them up drives them now, with Pariston sitting comfortably beside her and their target, restrained, in the trunk. The first thing Pariston had done was switch out his ruined jacket for a new one, and as he'd buttoned it up it was like he was shedding the role he'd assumed for the evening and returning to the distant, vexing Vice Chairman. He'd merely handed her the sachels she'd packed, and told her he'd see her off on a chartered plane back to Swaldani City.

“You're not coming back with me? Rat.” To her chagrin, her words seem to please him, and Cheadle looks away when he laughs, studying the lights lining the edges of the airport as the car takes them away from the public terminals and towards the unassuming, private section.

“My mission is not yet finished,” he finally says, and raps his knuckles against the seat back between them. “I have to deliver him back to his home country, and assist in his interrogation. Then I will be able to return.”

A weight settles at the bottom of Cheadle's throat when she swallows. She knows her role had been to get Pariston inside the Opera Ball, and to back him up if it came to a fight—but it irks her that with whatever else is going on, Pariston has deliberately excluded her. It's just a mission, and it's not up to her to make judgments, but there is more to this than what she knows.

When the car comes to a stop Pariston exits first, moving around the vehicle to open Cheadle's door for her. It's one of those considerate gestures of his she despises, and she makes sure to grab her own bags, slinging them around her shoulders despite the way it bunches the fabric of her dress.

A small jet stands to the side, and beyond it Cheadle can just make out a second plane, the designations painted across the side hidden by the darkness.

Cheadle pauses by the side of the car, and when she finally turns to leave Pariston is blocking her path. It's as if he senses her hesitancy, but then again, she's never been very good at hiding such things from him before.

“Ask me to stay, if that is what you want.” His voice is soft, but her ears have no trouble picking it up.

She huffs into her folded arms, her bags swinging against her sides. “That isn't what I want.”

He looks down at her and gives her what could be a smile, if his teeth were not so bright and the curve of his mouth was not so sharp. “Then ask for what you do.”

She glances at the plane and back to him, one arm draped over the top of the car. It would be easy to take his arm or his hand. She could get back in the car, she'd left the door open, or she could insist on being brought in to whatever this mission is truly about and follow wherever it leads. Instead, she fixes her eyes on one of the tarmac's blinking lights and steps past him, ignoring the way her arm brushes against him as she passes. It reminds her of every simple touch they'd shared over the evening, and how, with her abilities and restrictions restored, she can no longer indulge in something like that again. She thinks of the Hunter, Gitturackur, who she is sure would give her a repeat of his skills for a price. And how she hadn't even noticed how much she missed such contact until she had it again, and now she can think of little else. How her body no longer feels her own, as she remembers it, and she doesn't know how to fill that strange emptiness now that she is aware of just how deep it runs.

She doesn't turn back towards him but she pauses, for only a moment. “There is nothing you have that I want.”

She can hear him laugh, just under his breath. And then he slides back inside the car, taking her seat, and as it drives away she boards the plane and slides into one of the oversized leather chairs. She settles her bags into the seat beside her, and, while the plane's staff busy themselves with prepping the plane for takeoff, studies the way the harsh overhead light shines on the silk of her gloves.

She pulls them off, one at a time, and links her fingers in her lap, readjusting and turning her hands to try and find a combination that feels comfortable. None do, and eventually, when the plane takes off and she is left alone in the cabin, she stops trying, and leaves her hands, palms up, settled over the gloves.

Things change, as she told Elora, but some things did not. She does not know what kind of change Pariston would want. Her last thought, before she falls asleep in her chair, is that she should have asked.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The 'city on the Yorubian Continent that's built smaller replicas of lots of world landmarks' is meant to be a Hunter-World Las Vegas. 
> 
> 2) For anyone curious about the chronology, this story takes place a couple months after [Blue Smile](http://cheadle-yorkshire.tumblr.com/post/95336630587/fanfiction-hunter-x-hunter-blue-smile) and a week or so before [Forty Winks](http://cheadle-yorkshire.tumblr.com/post/90978986292/fanfiction-hunter-x-hunter-forty-winks). In terms of how this fits into canon, I wanted to keep it deliberately vague in case canon disproves anything I've written, but it's implied that the 'jealous wife' mentioned in the story was Sevanchi Hui Guo Rou, the King's seventh wife (making the target of her jealousy the eighth, Woble's mother Oito), and the story would have taken place shortly before Woble's birth. 
> 
> 3) [Kurapilka](http://kurapilka.tumblr.com/) will be doing some lovely art for this story, thank you for that and I'll include a link as soon as one is available! <3
> 
> 4) Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value any comments.


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